


A Safe Place

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Play, M/M, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 14:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before Moriarty's trial, John comes to Greg looking for comfort and reassurance.  The night before Sherlock's fall, Greg does his best to provide it again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Safe Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nathaniel_hp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nathaniel_hp/gifts).



> I was really intrigued by the thought of how their power dynamic might shift between their personal and professional lives – mixed up as they are. I hope this little piece touches in some satisfactory way on that question, and I hope you enjoy reading it! Thanks for the excellent prompts!

Greg was slumped at his kitchen table watching television when the four faint, rapid knocks came at the door. At once his shoulders righted themselves, and the sick feeling congealing in his middle at the headlines scrolling across the screen - _trial of the century opens tomorrow_ – began to ease. By the time John let himself in Greg was already in the refrigerator, pushing past the leftovers to draw out two tall cans of beer. John had had his own key for about three weeks, more than enough time to establish a reliable routine.

"I've got to look through your ties," John called from the hallway, the feet of the crowded coat tree rattling against the floor as he piled his jacket on top of all the others. 

The flat wasn't large. A couple paces and Greg was handing him his drink, putting his own to his mouth with a sceptical arch of his eyebrow. "My ties?"

John shook his head and rolled his eyes, and accepted the beer with a grim sort of gratitude. "Your neckties. Cheers," he added, taking a heavy swig. "His highness hasn't got any he likes, and mine – well, I won't subject you to his exact words, but they're a no go, too."

The unlikelihood – the utter incredibility – of the thought of Sherlock wanting to borrow one of _his_ neckties was immediately apparent to him, but Greg just nodded, took another drink, and waved John into the bedroom. "If he wants anything in real silk he'll have to look to his highness the elder. I might have some – I don't know. Some stripes that aren't too shabby."

"God. Telling him to go to Mycroft's about the only thing that could make him more insufferable just at the moment." John pulled the closet open with the familiarity of someone who could call part of it his own – the (rather minimal) rack of neckties was all Greg's, but there were a few shirts, a few jumpers, a few pairs of slacks on the far side that belonged to him.

Greg sat on the edge of the bed, watching. It was quite obvious to him that John was only worried – that he wanted sympathetic company. And with Moriarty's trial starting in the morning, Greg wouldn't begrudge him a second of it. Indeed, he was glad to see him: John wasn't the only one fretting himself stupid over what might happen once that bastard set foot in a courtroom. Even if he had been, there was little Greg loved more than making himself useful, and John coming over, letting himself in, assuming all the privileges Greg had so happily granted him generated a deep sense of comfort. He was pleased to be able to do something for him, whatever it might have been. Accustomed as he was to reaping the benefits of John and Sherlock's professional efforts, it was impossible not to feel restless unless he knew he was doing his part - and if he could augment it by sitting by while John rifled through his ties (none of which Sherlock would ever have touched), then sit by he would.

"This one, maybe," John muttered, putting a red one up against his throat. "Maybe not."

"I still don't know why the hell they're calling him as a witness." Greg crossed his ankles and lounged back a bit. "They must know he'll be a train wreck. They aren't stupid, these people – stubborn and hidebound, sometimes, to be sure, but not stupid. I mean, for Christ's sake – you're the one he kidnapped. And they're putting Sherlock on the stand so he can – what? Sneer at everyone?"

"Oh – you know." John folded up a striped green tie and stuck it back on the rack. "Wow the jury, do his usual thing. I'm not half as impressive. They want to nail him, don't they, and that's what Sherlock does. Why shouldn't they call him?" He was talking too quickly, a habit Greg wondered if he hadn't picked up from Sherlock in nervous moments. "They can call my grandmother if it means Moriarty rots."

The rustle and zip of fabric was the only sound for the next minute or so, as Greg sat silently and offered up a vague and hopeless prayer that Moriarty would just disappear into the void from which he'd so suddenly sprung. Because it was impossible to think that he would stay anywhere long enough to rot, no matter the facility. He could be convicted in God's own court, and, devil that he was, Greg knew he'd slip the leash. He was afraid – afraid of what might happen to Sherlock, terrified of what might have happened to John, and deeply apprehensive about what a man like Moriarty might do to try to step up his game after taking the damned Crown Jewels. 

But there was nothing to say about that. He was afraid – who wouldn't be? John was afraid, too, and fast running out of Greg's meagre collection of neckties with which to chew through his anxiety. Soon there would be nothing but silence, and that, Greg knew, would be too heavy for either of them to bear.

He set his beer on the nightstand. "Hey," he said, quietly enough that John looked over his shoulder, the better to hear him. "Let's go clean up."

John let out a breath – relief, surprise, strain, Greg couldn't quite tell – but, after a moment, nodded his assent. Greg left him straightening the last of the ties and went out into the hall to cross to the bathroom. He swung open the glass door of the stall shower and turned on the faucet, letting the tiny room fill up with steam as he stripped off the old T-shirt and shorts he'd been lazing around in after work. The mirror fogged, the glass whitened, and the hook he hung his clothes on over the back of the door was slick; still, he waited on the bathmat, arms crossed over his chest.

Some two minutes later John joined him in the bathroom and shut the door behind him. "All right." His voice was low and soft, but he looked better, Greg thought – more square, more stable on his feet. Together, they squeezed into the shower, under the sting of the hot water. There was barely enough space for the two of them and Greg's few toiletries, but when he took John into his arms and pressed them flush together, it felt a bit less claustrophobic, a little more as though it were simply a secure fit. 

Tipping his face up to Greg's and sliding his hands up to the sides of his neck, John breathed in deeply, his chest expanding, broad and solid. "Sorry to barge in." His thumb stroked from the corner of Greg's mouth to his jaw. "I had to get out of the flat – maybe I shouldn't have. Maybe I should have stayed."

Greg shook his head. "Tomorrow will come no matter what you do. Might as well be rested for it." The thought of John spending the night steeped in worry and alone – or worse, steeped in worry and having it constantly exacerbated – made his arms tighten around John's waist. "And you know you're welcome." He ducked his head to brush his face against John's, his mouth lingering a fraction of an inch away from his lips. "Whenever you like. I told you."

Without another word – and hardly seeming to move, though the distance between them was closed – John kissed him. The strain in Greg's neck and back began to give way under the pressure of the water and the heat, the certainty of that kiss; and his grip relaxed. When he felt John reaching for the bar of soap resting on the shelf at his back, he dropped his arms to his sides, without feeling that they'd drawn too far away.

"All right," John said again, and, feeling as though he were settling into himself, Greg rested one hand on the tile wall beneath the showerhead and raised his chin. The space, the stance, the words, the smell were all familiar. It might have been any other of their nights together. 

It wasn't, he knew. Tomorrow, anything might happen. But – this was tonight.

The soap started at the junction of his collarbone. From there, John swept it out along his shoulder, let it glide down his arm, ran it back up again along his chest. His hand followed in its wake, lathering – not luxuriously, not even particularly sensually, with a casual strength that was simply purposeful – and finding every crevice, passing under his arm, in the dip of his shoulder, the space between his fingers. It was the same for the other side; then, his abdomen; his cock, his bollocks, his inner thighs; his legs down to his toes. John straightened and stood back, his eyes travelling over all of Greg's body in appraisal, as the residue slid off his skin and down into the drain.

"All right," John said. "Turn around."

Greg turned without a word, bracing himself once again against the wall. He let his eyes close as John soaped his back and kneaded down from his shoulders to the tense muscles at the base of his spine, his hands moving more slowly than perhaps was necessary over his arse, sliding deliberately into the cleft and pressing forward to palm his balls for just a moment before pulling out again. There was something that ought to eat at one's dignity, Greg supposed as the suds ran away, about having another man attend so thoroughly to one's most intimate tasks – but he only felt gratitude. This was security, the kind of confidence he hardly ever enjoyed, these days. When John tugged gently at his elbow, he stepped under the showerhead and wiped himself down again until the last of the soap's slippery film was gone.

"Go wait for me," John said, pressing a kiss to his spine just between his shoulders. 

Greg smiled at him, pressed his hand quickly, and stepped out of the shower, letting the glass door fall shut behind him again, hiding John away in the steam. He dried off, wrapped the towel around his waist, and went to sit at the foot of the bed. From this vantage point he was looking square at the open bedroom door, and at the door of the bathroom that he'd left slightly ajar; he could wait properly, attentively. Having something to focus on - even if it was only the changing sound of the running water, the squeak of the shower door, the shifting patterns of steam in the hallway light as John shut off the shower and dried himself – was a helpful guard against the fear that had, of course, been building in him for days. He was afraid, and likely would be afraid for weeks and months to come, but for now the only object of his thoughts would be: John.

There was a calm that came from knowing he was helping; from knowing they were helping each other. They were both far stronger than any fear.

When he felt warm enough, he let the towel drop to the foot of the bed. John emerged a few moments later, naked and pink from the heat of the water, and proceeded immediately to Greg, stepping between his knees and wrapping his arms loosely around Greg's hunched shoulders. Greg closed his eyes and pressed the side of his face flat against John's abdomen. He slid his arms around John's waist. For a long time they stayed there, warming one another, John's pulse sounding in Greg's ear.

Then – slowly but unmistakably – that pulse began to come a little faster, a little stronger. And Greg's lips, even before they had time to curl into a smile, were sliding along the damp, smooth skin of John's stomach. He mouthed in a steady, tranquil rhythm over the muscles that stood out from his abdomen as John tensed against the sensation; he lapped softly, almost tentatively with his tongue down toward the trail of hair leading down from John's navel. In his current position he could only get so far, but he knew before very long John would sink his hand into his hair and stop him – and soon he did, giving a firm tug that turned Greg's face up to his. In John's eyes there was affection, but also lust and its attendant impatience, a tension that reached to his mouth and that displaced any worry that might be lurking behind that surface of desire. Greg breathed a silent sigh of pleasure.

As always, John kept his hand fisted into Greg's hair as he walked around the side and climbed into bed, leaning comfortably against the headboard, as though he were simply settling in to read. Tonight – a sign of his distraction, perhaps – he didn't go to the usual lengths to arrange the pillows behind his back or to turn down the blankets. He didn't say, as he usually did: _don't spill any._ He just pulled, and Greg crawled between his legs and eagerly set to sucking his cock.

The routine was off, now, and Greg felt that keenly as he lay on his side, his head resting against John's thigh as he wet his lips and kissed, soft and open, at the base of John's cock. He felt lax, in a way, as though he were getting away with something – it was a guilty pleasure, this leisurely intimacy, wetting every inch of him before taking him into his hand and stroking, long and lazy, up his length. He had almost relaxed into it – he had the head in his mouth and an easy smile pulling at the corners of his lips – when John sucked in a breath and said, stern:

"Greg. Up."

In an instant, shame was rising red in his face. He felt the force of the reprimand like the sudden shock of guilt at being caught at something childish and wrong – but he also felt _better_. The pleasure of laying the rules aside was nothing compared to the satisfaction of being corrected, of feeling John move everything decisively back into place. Wishful thinking, perhaps – or an indulgence in fantasy; even in this state of mind, he knew there was very little either of them could control. But for now, he'd take it. He let out a shuddering breath, pushed back from the warm, wet safety between John's legs, and did what he knew he ought to have done in the first place.

John liked him with his arse in the air, knees spread apart. The hours he'd spent perfecting that position – gratuitous, needless hours given the simplicity of it, on one or two occasions with rope and a belt for emphasis – meant Greg was very familiar with it indeed, and it was the work of a couple seconds to place himself where he was meant to be. He drew himself up on his knees, spread them as far as he could, and bent over to take John's cock in his hand again. It was an awkward position; he was resting on his forearms, which gave him less mobility than he'd have liked in his wrists. It forced him to rely mostly on his tongue and his lips to keep John where he wanted him, and it was tiring, sloppy work, but most of all it kept him intently focused on the task at hand. There was little room for idleness or a wandering mind when he was consumed with making sure John's hard, thick cock didn't bob out of his mouth, when his efforts were so concentrated on keeping his nose pressed as often as possible into John's patch of pubic hair, when he knew he had to position himself just right to seal his lips around him, to suck and open and swallow, to follow what was usually his only spoken instruction: _don't spill any._ All this while the intoxicating vulnerability of having his legs spread and his arse exposed, the very pressing knowledge that behind him the bedroom door was wide open, were driving his own heartbeat up, quickening his breath, arousing him until his cock stood half stiff and began sweetly to ache.

John's breath was heavy and his hand was pushing roughly through Greg's hair when he deviated from their pattern once again, resting his hand on Greg's jaw and stroking clumsily at his throat. "All right – all right. Stop. Off."

Greg lifted his head, gasping; the warm, enveloping feeling of oblivion that had begun to descend on him intensified, a pleasant surprise. He often experienced disruptions as disturbances, awkward interruptions on the well-traveled road to what he needed. Tonight, it lifted a weight from his shoulders. He'd spent so much time already in his own head, troubling over everything. Any words that cut into his solitude were welcome.

He held his position, simply resting his head on the mattress, laying the side of his face on the rumpled bedding. John swung his leg over him to climb off the bed, and Greg shut his eyes and waited. He felt calm, and counted the seconds until his pulse would slow and his breath would even out accordingly; but John's footfalls, the sound of a drawer opening, the soft shuffle of his rummaging through its contents all kept Greg's attention keenly focused and his body slightly on edge. It was simultaneously exhilarating and oddly serene, being so immediately available, open, vulnerable to the man standing somewhere behind him.

John's footsteps approached, stopped. Greg's breath caught in his throat and his pulse felt as though it were straining against every part of his body as silence fell again, full of a mystery he could have solved with a simple turn of his head; but he stayed where he was, his fingers curling into the bedding. He would wait – he would rather wait. And he didn't have to wait very long.

"It's a bit cold," John said, quietly, almost sweet. Greg's throat tightened, stifling a moan. "Sorry."

It _was_ cold, the finger that pressed against his arsehole, slick and cool with lubricant. Greg let out a breath as John worked it into him, moving deliberately back and forth, pressing deeper by careful increments until it was buried up to the last knuckle. It felt larger than he knew it was, the pleasure felt massive – all of Greg's body was concentrated into his throbbing cock, John's finger in his arse, and the pangs starting in his cramping arms. He started numbering his breaths as John slid his finger in and out; as it twisted steadily, so slow and regular as to be teasing; as it touched the places inside him he'd never even felt or identified until John had brought them sharply to his attention over the past few months. A second finger brought a quiet hum against the inside of his lips, a deepened rise and fall of his ribs. It seemed to him to go on for ages, and when John pulled his three warm, strong fingers out of him, leaving only the tip of one resting just inside the ring of Greg's arsehole, it wasn't enough – Greg shifted his weight back, pressing against John's hand, one of his knees moving in to stabilize his weight. He wanted more, he needed –

"No."

The sturdy _smack_ burst against his ears even before the sting erupted on the flesh of his thigh. Greg swallowed a moan and spread his knees again, inching his leg back into position – he wanted John inside of him, desperately, but even more than that, it felt so goddamn fantastic to be _good_.

A moment or two later, John wiped his fingers firmly across the back of Greg's leg, and rested his hands on his hips, thumbs pressing into the flesh of his arse. "Tell me what you want."

"Oh, God." He'd been waiting for this. "Please – fuck me. Please."

John's weight made the mattress sink behind him, and Greg arched his back, presenting his hips when he felt John's erection slide against his leg. There was little in his mind beyond a solid _yes_. When John palmed his bollocks and rolled them slowly back and forth, Greg actually whimpered, his toes curling. _Please_ , he thought – but said nothing. It would have been so easy, so good to reach down and touch himself; but if John wanted that, he would say so. And John was saying nothing, just breathing rapidly, fondling Greg's balls – and, finally, nudging Greg forward to level him out, lowering his arse and letting him come up on his elbows to distribute his weight a bit more evenly. Greg let his head hang down between his shoulders, baring the back of his neck to John's hand.

He felt John guiding himself into him, the tip of his cock pressing past that ring of muscle, his hand brushing against Greg's thighs. He stayed steady, open for him, as John rocked into him, inch by inch; he clenched his eyes shut and set his jaw and focused on keeping his head down to make sure he didn't writhe, buck, or squirm. John liked him still. John liked him stoic. John would get what he liked. And soon John began to take it, sliding in and out more and more easily as Greg's body loosened for him, finally driving his full length into him again and again with a rhythmic _slap_. It was too much, too soon; Greg's mouth fell open as the burn scraped along in the wake of John's cock; he clenched his shoulders against the pain and fell deeper into his mind to ward it away and center on what really mattered –

"Greg." John's voice cut through his concentration. He had stopped; the mattress was still, and the pain was fading. "Tell me what you want."

With a conscious effort, Greg loosened his shoulders. He exhaled and relaxed around John's cock, still full and deep inside of him, as well as he could. He found his voice a minute later, while John's hand was stroking his hip with a patience that sent a shudder up his spine. "Not so hard, please."

"All right. Good. Are you all right?"

"Yes. Yes – all right."

John was easier, then – slower, gentler, moving with every twitch and shift of Greg's hips. Greg bit back the cry building in his throat until John gave him the pat on the back of his neck that meant he was free to let loose. In an instant he let out a desperate, rising _ah_ ; John was moving with him so seamlessly he felt as though he was simply and constantly full, stretched to his limit no matter how he twisted or pushed or pulled; but it was all pleasure, all deep satisfaction, all just the right amount of tension. He was desperate, breathless, moaning _John_ when the words he'd been waiting for finally came:

"Are you ready?"

"Yes – please. Yes, please."

John reached down to grip Greg's cock and stroke him, his hand still sticky with drying lube and soon slippery with Greg's sweat and pre-come. Now, Greg knew, he was allowed – and he let his hips snap with the full force of his desire, letting it consume him almost – almost to the point of complete self-indulgence. With a choked-off groan he came, every part of him tensing as he spilled into and over John's fingers. It was bliss, he was gasping, his muscles were threatening to fall out of their singing rigidity into boneless rapture, but he knew it was too soon; John was still grinding into him, hard, relentless, needy. So Greg gave him everything he had, moving with him, pumping his hips, clenching and unclenching his arse around him even as he longed to collapse and fall into the sweet, tempting abyss that John always provided for him – security, pride, perfect, empty refuge. He could rest soon enough. _This_ was what he'd set out to do. When John came inside of him, his nails digging into Greg's waist, the force of his last few powerful thrusts rocking the headboard until it struck and struck and struck the wall, he knew he'd done it; he felt the warm, wonderful certainty that he'd been of service.

He loved it. He loved John. Never more than in moments like these.

The routine returned after that. John pulled out, climbed off him, and went to the bathroom to fetch the washcloth he'd use to clean them up. (Greg turned down the blankets while he was away, since John had neglected to do it earlier – deeply invested in the details, he was unwilling to give up any more of the usual procedures than he had to.) As soon as John had wiped him down, Greg slid under the covers and waited; John returned, shut the door, put out the lights, and fell into Greg's arms, limp and exhausted. Greg stroked his hair and murmured thanks and reassurances against his forehead, and made sure to think of nothing – nothing – but the hours they'd just passed together. Tomorrow would come for both of them, but for now, they had one another. And not even Moriarty and the circus he'd built up around himself could cross the threshold of this room.

\+ + +

Soon, of course, Moriarty's schemes had broken down almost every door Greg had learned to trust. The neat compartments in which he kept his work and his personal life had long ago been mixed up, first by Sherlock, and then by John – but he had always managed a hard line between Sherlock, _his_ agent, _his_ man, and the unyielding chain of command that was anathema to truth. Now that was finished, erased, and Greg found he could do nothing to prevent the disastrous effects of its disappearance. He would get caught up in the flood – disciplined at least, and, God, if they learned half the things he'd let Sherlock get away with over the years, he'd be lucky not to be out on the street – and so would Sherlock. Whatever it was Moriarty was planning, it was clicking along like fucking clockwork. There was nothing he could do.

Well – almost nothing. He could still do what he _had_ to do. If Sherlock would just trust him, just let him try, he knew he could help him. If he would just come along quietly and let Greg do the talking –

Then they could all have tea on the moon with the Queen. But he had to try. So he called John.

"Hey." John's voice was terse, tired. Greg hadn't heard him sound otherwise since the verdict. "What's going on?"

"I'm coming over, John." No one was going to like this; he hated it. "Me and a bunch of other guys – I'm trying to keep things in hand, but some of them – you know, some of them are practically foaming at the mouth. I can't keep them back. You have to get him ready –"

"For fuck's sake – you _can_ keep them back, you've got to tell them this is all a –"

"No." Greg wished he could shout and curse at him, but there was none of that fire in him, not now. He just felt tired – worried. He shook his head, eyes shut. "No, I can't. I'm going to try to talk to them, of course I am, but Sherlock's got to come in. Tell him to come in, and sit tight. I'll get him to a safe place, and then I'll – look, when they've got him in handcuffs they'll be a little less stupid. I promise. I can fix this – I can. But he's got to give me a chance."

John was silent for several seconds. Greg knew what he was thinking – the same thing he was. _Good luck with that._ But instead he said: "Thanks." And he hung up.

Stony and grim on the ride over, holding his rank like a hammer over anyone in the car who might even have thought of making some crowing noise about Sherlock Holmes getting his own back, Greg held onto the slim scrap of hope he could muster that they'd pull this out before Sherlock decided to take things into his own hands. When he arrived to find Baker Street lit and occupied and quiet, he almost let himself think it would be a simple affair.

He got halfway up the staircase (and a bleak _good evening, Mrs. Hudson_ ) before he felt it begin to fall apart.

"Have you got a warrant?" John asked, planting himself at the top of the stairs. _Trust me_ , Greg wanted to say; _I've always trusted you_. But that wasn't fair – that was as far off the point as John demanding a goddamn warrant. In this, Greg trusted himself (even if he knew luck and every other force of nature would stab him in the back), and, like every other time he was on duty, that had to be enough for everyone around him.

"Leave it, John." He hardly met John's eyes as he placed his hand firmly on his arm and moved past him.

And then he had to arrest Sherlock. It was awful – it was _stupid_ , and of course nothing about it was ever going to be easy – but, God help him, he did it. What's more, he did it right, and it was the right bloody thing – it would keep him, and all of them, safe, to the extent that was in his power. When Sherlock started down the stairs in capable (if gloating) hands, Greg let himself breathe again. Maybe – just maybe – this could sail smoothly along just long enough for him to do some real good.

John stepped up to him, and Greg could see in his face the desperation, the fear, frustration, anger – all the things he himself was fighting, determined not to fall onto the low path, into petty words and hurtful, useless blows. "Don't interfere," he said, before John could get a word out. He was doing his best to keep Sherlock safe, but he'd safeguard the two of them, too – silence was for the best. He didn't always _know_ what was for the best, but in guarding those he loved, he had ever felt a certain assurance. "Or I shall arrest you, too."

He left.

As he walked down the stairs, the back of his neck burned and his stomach rebelled; he felt almost sick with anticipation. He could do this; he _could_ do this. If only the right people would follow his lead, listen, and have faith, he could see them through intact. Nothing had to break tonight. Nothing had to fail. God knew he was a man with more than his share of self-doubt, and well-deserved at that, but when it came to what was right and what was safe, he could stand up for the people who needed him. 

It was with that encouraging conviction that he went into the street, lifting his hand to his face for just a moment to shield his eyes against the blinding blue light.


End file.
